“Captain, the scouts are back,” a warrior called to Fergus, who had just kicked off his boots and was relaxing in front of his fire. The day had been exciting. Stealing a herd and running for home. When Medb demanded a halt, frustrated, he sent out the scouts to see how close the chasers were. They should not have stopped until they were safely behind the palisade of Ath Luain.
“Send them to me,” he said, pulling on his boots. “Well?” he asked as the scouts gathered around his fire.
“They are here, Captain, making camp on the opposite rise.”
“An advance guard making camp?”
“No, Captain, the whole army is making camp on the rise. Mac Nessa and a delegation are riding towards us with the branch of peace.”
“Inform the queen.”
Only a short time later, Fergus was restraining his urge to ride at them, which was proving difficult. He wanted to gallop the twenty paces to Mac Nessa and sweep the grinning head from The Deceiver’s shoulders. He could feel the muscles in his forearms quivering with tension.
The king of the Ulaid looked a sight in the failing afternoon light: helmet under arm, boiled leather armor under a gold-trimmed cloak, grey pigtail swept over his shoulder, clearly visible.
He should rest his helmet on his gut. Would be easier.
Despite the comic appearance, Mac Nessa’s face carried the usual sneering grin. Fergus wondered if the king knew how ridiculous he appeared, adopting the dress and manner of a practiced warrior. All watching, who knew anything about anything, knew Mac Nessa did his killing with silver and his battle cries at the rear of the shield wall behind twelve of his most able warriors, seated on his strongest horse to guarantee a speedy departure if things took a downturn.
What would happen if I killed him under the peace branch?
Fergus took deep, calming breaths. Scathach would be proud. Uathach would be grinning at his back. He shook his head and wished the women of The Shadowy Isle were in the company. He would rest a little easier with the two warriors beside him.
“Medb,” Kathvar said, bowing slightly.
The druid was sitting beside Mac Nessa, inscrutable, with his grey beard tucked into his belt and sky-blue eyes watching. The queen claimed Kathvar had given his blessing to the raid. Looking at him, Fergus could see no sign of that complicity. Judging by the king’s grinning head, he also had no idea.
"Where are Mesgegra and Mac Dedad?" Mac Nessa asked. “I heard they were in on this farcical invasion. Beguiled by promises of inexistent wealth.”
“Inexistent, King? Fiachna does not hide his riches. He flaunts them,” Medb scoffed. “Then he turns to you to protect it for him. And you—”
“They sent troops. They didn’t see the need to join the venture in person,” Fergus interrupted, stopping the bickering.
“Well, Fergus, I heard you have taken a new lover,” Mac Nessa said, nodding at Medb. “And the weak and drunken fool of a king has done nothing. Let’s you hump her at will, they say. Does he watch? No longer able to perform? Balls pickled in mead, no doubt. Where is he? Ailill, are you hiding among your warriors? Come, we must agree on battle terms.”
“I speak for Connacht,” Medb said, head held high.
“You, woman. What gives you the authority to speak as a king?”
“I, a mere woman, command this army, Deceiver. If you want battle terms, you need to agree them with me, however demeaning you might find that to be. If you do not want terms, let us have at it.”
“Did you hear that, lads? She commands,” he said to a chorus of chuckles from his lieutenants. “I thought you would be wearing blue paint, Medb. All my spies tell me you go into battle in nothing but a wee bit of woad, trying to distract your enemy with saggy tits,” the king said, looking around as his lieutenants continued to chuckle.
“Blue paint. Is this a battle, Mac Nessa? You brought the peace branch, so I thought we were meeting to discuss terms. Should I return and get my weapons?”
“I hear, Fergus, that you captain this army,” the king said, ignoring Medb.
“I do.”
“Do you not address your king as sire, man?”
“You aren’t my king, Mac Nessa. You forfeited that privilege when you murdered my sword brother and sold his wife into sexual slavery.”
“Naoise defied me. He needed to be punished.”
“He refused to give you first night rights on his wedding day. Any true warrior would have done the same. And what did Dierdre do that deserved your punishment.”
“I did not punish the woman. She took her own life.”
“Because you gave her to that beast as a toy.”
“First night was my right as king.”
“An ancient right that hasn’t been practiced for hundreds of summers. Your intent was to humiliate Naoise and Deirdre for whatever reason. Instead, they both perished at the hand of Eogan of Monaghan.”
“Deirdre took her own life—”
“Rather than succumb to Monaghan. Where is he? I don’t see him here. Too much the coward to face me, I warrant.”
“Enough, Fergus. We are here to discuss battle terms. I suggest—”
“I’m not here to discuss battle terms,” Fergus interrupted Mac Nessa. “I’m here to tell you, your life is forfeit. I was there when you promised not to kill Naoise—you swore an oath and were bound by it. When battle joins, I will seek you out and kill you, Mac Nessa. I’ll take your head and throw it in the bog. As an oath breaker, Donn will refuse you entry into his síd, and you’ll spend eternity in shame.”
Fergus felt a jolt of joy as the color leached from Mac Nessa’s face. The king’s lieutenants were still grinning, but the king was shocked. Kathvar was thoughtful but kept his peace.
“I suggest battle be joined in the morning,” Medb said. “The day is near done, and soon it will be too dark to see. My army will stay on the hill of Gáirech. I do not see any need for us to break camp and move.”
“That gives you an advantage,” Kathvar said.
Mac Nessa said nothing. He sat on his horse, glowering at Fergus, the fear in his eyes evident.
“We arrived first. That gives us first choice,” Fergus said. “Besides, the Red Branch has never balked at walking the shield wall up a slight rise.”
“Your terms are acceptable,” Kathvar said with a frown. “Come, King, we withdraw until the dawn.”
***
“Tell the queen, Longas, tell her,” a young soldier to Medb’s right urged. The queen shook her head and smiled at the youth.
Leaning against a tree, arms crossed, legs crossed at the ankles, Fergus looked around the central fire pit at the excitement of Medb’s pups. After the cattle raid, they were eager to face the Red Branch in the coming battle. He knew it was good that their spirits were high, but not because of false signals. First, Setanta died, and then there was the successful raid and theft of the bull. Medb building up confidence with exaggerations about their abilities.
They would not do well against the Red Branch.
Fergus knew most warriors who remained in Medb’s depleted force had never been in the shield wall. They had no idea about the smells, the blood and shit, the fear, the sweating, heaving bodies, the confusion. They had not seen friends searching in the detritus of battle for missing limbs nor heard the dying pleading for mercy or for their mother.
“Tell her what? Can you not see she has things on her mind? Last thing she wants is listening to stories about famous Red Branch warriors.”
“Tell her about the fight between Conall and Lugh. One stroke, and it was over. No one realized he was dead ’til he fell from the saddle.”
Fergus shook his head. The youth had not been at the short battle on Mag nAí. Someone had been telling tall stories. Fergus thought he knew who. The one who craved the attention of his peers.
“She was there, eejit. That was on the plains of Mag nAí. Her settlement, remember?” Longas and his stories. Would he never tire of telling tall tales?
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Tell her about the fight between Conall and the pirate, Ingcél, in the vale of Glencree.”
“Now, there’s a real story,” Longas said with a nod and a grin. “The battle between sword and hammer. It was a hard-fought…”
Fergus shook his head and considered stopping the story. Longas had not been anywhere near the fight between Conall and Ingcél. Not that battle, at least. He was in Glencree when the high king lost his head…
And then it hit him.
“He wasn’t there,” Fergus interrupted, standing up and walking into the firelight. He had watched Conall and Ingcél fight from the rise in the van of the Red Branch troop tasked with killing the pirate. It had not been hard fought. Conall killed Ingcél before the fight even started. The pirate recognized the futility of winning when six hundred mounted warriors were within a slingshot of him. Ingcél smiled while Conall stabbed him in the heart.
“What happened in Glencree, Longas?”
Fergus felt a rage building. The son of Mac Nessa should not be sitting at the fire, the center of attention in the queen’s army. He had been in the high king’s retinue when the pirate chased them into the vale.
Longas shook his head and gazed up at Fergus with a quizzical expression. “Too much mead, Fergus?”
“Why are you here?”
“I have no idea what you mean? Here for the same reason as you, rat’s cock,” Longas said with a chuckle, but his eyes showed a feral wariness. At that moment, Fergus realized Conall had been right. He could not trust Longas. There had always been something about him, and it was now starting to glow like a freshly lit beacon.
“You don’t? I’m surprised. Think back to the invasion. You went with Conall to join the High King’s retinue. Protecting the king—that was your mission. I stood beside your father’s throne and wondered at your reasoning. You said you were craving battle. You should have died in the vale of Glencree with the others. You should have died defending High King Connery. And yet, here you are, regaling the pups with your fanciful tales.”
“There is no mystery, Fergus. I fought my way clear after the doors came down.”
“Fought your way clear of a thousand rebels?”
“Yes. It was a close-run fight. A lot of confusion. I managed to take a couple of the Britons out and get away.”
“No one else managed it. All died in the vale except you. How’s that possible?”
“Conall survived.”
“Maine Milscothach whacked him on the back of his head and hid him under a bench. Conall did not run. Did you run? Did you?”
“What are you saying?” Medb asked, forgotten by everyone around the fire. “Maine saved Conall?”
“I’ll tell you later, Medb. For now, I’ve this business to resolve. Did you run, betraying the High King in a bid to save your own skin? Did you? Answer me.”
Instead of answering, Longas jumped to his feet and ran from the fire. Several of the warriors stood to give chase. “Let him go,” Fergus called. “He’s not worth it. He’ll run to the Ulaid. Another coward in their battle lines will do us no harm.”
“A coward or a spy?” Medb asked. Fergus shrugged. It did not matter. He was gone and probably to his father on the opposite rise.
“What were you saying about The Honey-Tongued?” Medb asked, with a pleading in her eyes.
“After the death of Lugh on Mag nAí, Maine promised to repay Conall for saving his life. Lugh would have killed Maine. Conall intervened. Conall told me that towards the end of the battle, Maine had found a way into the hostel at Glencree through the water culvert. He knocked Conall out and hid him under a bench.”
“Oh,” Medb said. Fergus could see she realized the implications. Maine had prevented Conall from dying while serving the High King. An honorable end. Conall did not see Maine’s intervention as a gift. He should have died in the Vale of Glencree. Anything else was the coward’s way.
“That is why he is so morose?” Medb asked.
“That with other things, Medb.”
***
“He lives, you know.” Ailill started and stared at the flaps of his tent. There was a cowled and silhouetted form standing at the entrance. By the voice, a woman. It was not a voice he knew.
“Where are my guards?” he asked, more surprised than fearful, before thinking it silly. “Dead, of course.”
"No, not dead, Ailill. They are sleeping. They will be well when the sun rises. I used a small sleeping potion. Their heads will hurt, and their guts will feel delicate, but nothing more. Their pride, perhaps, will be more damaged because they found themselves unable to resist a flagon offered by a beautiful woman.”
“I heard nothing,” Ailill said. He felt rather than saw the woman shrug. “How did you get into the warrior’s enclosure?” he asked, a thought crossing his mind and tripping off his tongue before he could stop it.
“It is not as difficult as it should be. It is no wonder Setanta found his task so easy. Besides, the warriors are all around the fire pit listening to Longas, except the two sleeping outside your tent.”
“Who are you?”
“Come now, Ailill. Do not tell me you have not already guessed?”
“I have my suspicions,” Ailill admitted.
“Which are?”
"You are the seeress, Fedelm."
“So, you recognized my voice?”
“No. The only times I have heard you, you were shouting so the warriors could hear. A loud voice is quite different from one softly spoken. I deduced it was you. There are women with the camp followers, but I would not describe any of them as beautiful; they are more like farmhands given a little freedom. And why would they sneak into my tent late at night? No, there is only one near this sorry venture who would need to: the seeress Fedelm. Why are you here?”
“Like I said, I came to tell you The Hound is not dead.”
“I saw him carried away on a funeral bier. I saw the blood splash from Ferdia’s sword stroke. You cannot tell me he lives. I will not believe it.”
“He lives. He is sore and unable to fight, but I stitched him up in Dun Dealgan earlier this day. There was no damage to organs or main veins. The wound is clean. He will be stiff for many days, but he will live.”
“Why are you telling me this, seeress?”
“It is my task to prevent the coming battle. I thought to tell you he lived so you could convince your queen to withdraw.”
“The Hound wants to prevent the battle. That is another statement I find hard to believe.”
“I said it was my task. I did not say Setanta set that task.”
“Why did you not go directly to the queen?”
“After the fords, I think she would pull out her bodkin and attempt to stick me with it. I am more than able to protect myself but would prefer not to kill a queen.”
“And do you think I will not kill you?”
“No. I think you go to great lengths to paint yourself as a drunk and a simpleton but not all of us are fooled. I think, Ailill, that you would prefer to avoid tomorrow’s battle as much as I.”
“I am not a coward,” Ailill hissed.
“That was not my meaning. I meant you recognize the futility of it as much as I do. Not cowardice. Intelligence. You lost another son. Should we not now be thinking of those sons and daughters who will be lost if this madness prevails?” Fedelm pulled down her hood and walked into the tent. She sat on the bench opposite Ailill.
“How is news that The Hound lives going to cause Medb to withdraw if, as you say, he cannot fight?”
“I think you know. If your warriors learn of his survival, their new-found spirits will evaporate. I suspect if I walked from this tent and convinced the army of my news in the morning, you would have no army to take the field against the Red Branch.”
“Why do you not do it, then? If you are here to prevent the battle, that would achieve your goal, would it not?”
“Just as you do not, they would not believe me. I think to convince them, I need an ally. I think you, Ailill, are that ally. I think I can convince you I tell the truth.”
“I do believe you, truth be told. However, I do not think I can do anything to help. The queen is as likely to listen to me as she is to listen to you.”
“But you will try because I know you to be an honorable man and loyal king.”
“I will try,” Ailill said with a sigh.
***
Walking to Medb’s tent, Ailill could see the flickering fires of the Ulaid’s camp on the opposite rise. They seemed like a multitude of stars in the night sky. He knew each star would equal four or five Red Branch warriors. If battle joined the next day, the losses would be dire. The cream of Connacht’s youth would be bound to perish. He knew he needed to succeed in the task the seeress had set for him, or he would become king of desolation.
Unlike now, he thought, because now I am king of nothing.
He did not understand why he believed Fedelm, but he did. He thought the seeress stood for the good of Ériu as much as Medb claimed she did. His instinct told him Fedelm was genuine, and Ailill felt he should trust his instinct. Too often of late, he had relied on advice and not listened to his own counsel, which had led to this plain somewhere between Atha Luain and Ath Féne.
“What is the name of this hill?” he asked as he ducked into Medb’s tent.
“The name of the hill? Do you never pay attention, Ailill?”
He shrugged. He did not recall anyone telling him which hill they were on when they made camp. It had been a mad dash across the fords at Ath Féne and the plains, heading for the settlement of Ath Luain and the safety of the palisade. They would still be running had Medb not been tired and demanded a halt. “We are on the hill of Gáirech. Make note, Ailill, because one day this hill will be famous as the place where the greatest armies the Five Kingdoms ever knew met and did battle.”
“They are the Red Branch. Without far superior numbers, invincible.”
“Invincible unless outnumbered, are they? We outnumber them.”
“We did outnumber them. I fear it is now an even field, Medb. We must retreat to Ath Luain, at least. Get under the protection of a palisade, and the odds will be evened out again.”
“No, we will stay here and join battle with the Ulaid in the morning. I have made my decision, Ailill. Mac Nessa will get his due on the hill of Gáirech.”
“We have the bull, and we have the herd. The Red Branch warriors are sleeping. Let us break camp and retreat to Ath Luain while we have the advantage.”
“Putting aside the danger Mac Nessa represents, we cannot let Mórgor’s death go unavenged.”
Ailill looked at her and frowned. He did not want to tell her the killer of their son was not dead. It would break her to know her jubilation at the fords had been unfounded. And then he thought back. She had shown no jubilation, just a profound tiredness. “The Hound is not dead, Medb. He is sorely wounded, but he will live.”
“Who told you he lives?”
“The seeress.”
“And you believe her? Can you not see she has been allied to this boy from the outset?”
“We cannot—”
“Do not try to tell me what we can and cannot do. You no longer have a say.”
“And why not, woman?”
“Because, as always, you are drunk. Go to your tent and sleep it off. Leave the decisions to those who are sober and have the required knowledge.”